


Music Appreciation

by damerons (noblydonedonnanoble)



Category: A Most Violent Year (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Exhibitionism, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Masturbation, Vibrators, also forgot to tag that there's a hint of, purely so that Abel can use a remote control vibrator, these are our priorities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-17 16:13:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29595366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noblydonedonnanoble/pseuds/damerons
Summary: You finally admit to Abel that you don't like classical music concerts because you can't follow what's happening, so he decides to help you hear the music a different way.
Relationships: abel morales/reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 13





	Music Appreciation

**Author's Note:**

> [Tchaikovsky Symphony No. 2](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CRGK4cv0k9c), if you'd like a ~reference while you read. :)

Abel goes to great lengths to appear cultured.

You admire him for it, normally. You’ve seen him at business dinners and office parties, the way he reads co-workers and clients and immediately has a sophisticated, respectable topic of conversation at hand. Fine art or music or literature. Always, in everything, needing to appear as a man of taste.

But when he insists that you go with him to the symphony one Saturday evening, you’re more than a little irate.

He’s in the master bathroom, shaving, while you sit on the bed trying your hardest not to let him distract you too thoroughly from your book and your morning coffee.

“I don’t understand why you don’t want to go, sweetheart. You’ll wear a stunning dress and we’ll go into Manhattan, have a nice dinner, and hear some excellent music. What could the problem possibly be?”

This is not the first time you’ve had this conversation, but unfortunately, this time, you’re not fully caffeinated.

“I can’t sit still for that long while nothing’s _happening_.”

Abel stops shaving—you hear it, as he sets down the razor and comes to stand in the doorway. “What do you mean nothing’s happening?”

Something about his expression is unnerving; it feels like he’s assessing you, in an uncanny sort of way. Curiously, but it is uncanny. “I… you know,” you tell him, shrugging vaguely. “How am I supposed to follow something when it’s half an hour long? Or even _longer_? It all just ends up sounding like a bunch of… nothing to me.” You trail off half-heartedly, grimacing.

Grimacing because you may not have ever said as much to Abel, but you’ve fretted over these feelings quite a lot. When he cares so much about culture, about taste… you’ve wondered vaguely about whether he’d be disappointed that you have such a blind spot.

He surprises you when he softens—leaving the doorway to sit beside you on the bed and kiss you softly. “I wish you would have told me. I thought you were just resistant to how it sounded.”

You shake your head. Say nothing, because you can’t sort out quite what to say when he’s looking at and touching you so gently.

And then his eyes darken just slightly, and your breath catches. “I can help you hear it differently, if you’d like.”

Why are you suddenly so nervous? “What do you mean?” you whisper.

Rather than give you an answer, Abel raises his eyebrows. “Come with me to the concert this evening.”

You swallow, and you nod, and he is off the bed in an instant. He changes the subject to some irritating work email that he woke up to this morning, and you find yourself reluctant to ask for more.

It’s only late in the afternoon, when you tell him you’re going to change for the night out, that he says, “Wear my favorite panties, baby.” Nonchalant, not even looking up from his crossword.

Maybe Abel has taste. Maybe he is cultured. But he also likes standing in art galleries, or across from you at big functions, his hand in his pocket while he uses a remote to tease you.

“Okay,” you breathe.

You’re not sure whether you breathe again for hours.

Again, Abel hasn’t said anything else about it. You know he won’t. He is affectionate and warm with you over dinner, and as you take a cab over to the concert hall. It isn’t until you’re sitting in his box and looking over the program with him that he hums. “I like this piece quite a bit,” he tells you, pointing out something by someone named César Franck. “But I think you’ll like this one.”

Tchaikovsky. At least you kind of recognize that name.

“His second symphony isn’t as highly regarded as some of the later symphonies, but I think it’s excellent. It really builds.” Again, Abel is poised and matter-of-fact, even though, if you’re right – and you’ve been with him long enough to know that you probably are – he is telling you _precisely_ when he plans to use that vibrator on you.

Normally he doesn’t. He likes to leave it up to his own whims, leave you aroused by the knowledge that, at any moment, he might be thinking about getting you off.

Looking at that symphony at the end of the evening’s program, though, you already feel a deep, overwhelming sort of tension.

Still. You try to listen to the first two pieces—the one that Abel likes, and something with a clarinet soloist. They barely register.

While the audience is applauding uproariously for the soloist, Abel leans over. His lips just barely graze your skin where your jaw meets your ear. “Would you like some wine?”

The alcohol they sell during intermission is absurdly overpriced, but it’s also delicious. You exhale slowly, and you nod, and he’s pecked a kiss to your cheek and cleared out of the box before the lights have even come up. Leaving you to wait.

Abel has paid for a box for as long as you’ve known him. He likes the strange combination of privacy and visibility that it affords, particularly when he wants to bring a possible client out and gently trick them into talking business. But it’s while waiting for him to return that you look around the concert hall and really feel it.

Perhaps no one is nearby to hear the vibrator kick on. Most likely, no one will know if you’re flushed, breathing rapidly, twisting in your seat.

But the possibility is there. In some ways, you might be even _more_ likely to draw attention. More possible sets of eyes wandering from the orchestra and landing on _you_.

Heat pools between your legs at the thought.

“The asshole in front of me didn’t tip,” Abel grumbles almost as soon as he reappears.

You purse your lips in amusement, taking your cup from him when he holds it out. “I’m sure you more than made up the difference.”

“Of course.” He straightens his jacket after sitting down. There’s a thoughtful frown on his face. “I’m glad I had that 20.”

More than made up the difference, indeed. God, you love him.

You love him even more a few minutes later, your cups empty and discarded together at your feet. The lights go down, and Abel’s mouth is at your ear again. “Promise me something, baby.”

“Anything.” You can barely get the word out.

“Don’t move. Just feel it.”

The hall breaks out into applause as the conductor strides onto the stage. You swallow hard, and you nod.

Even though you see the conductor raise his baton, the first note makes you jump. Or perhaps it’s the fact that you assumed Abel would start the vibrator the moment the piece started, but he does not. You lick your lips and stare straight ahead, trying not to feel disappointed.

It’s not until about thirty seconds later when he leans over again. Points down to the stage at the same moment the bassoon begins to play. “The plucked strings,” he murmurs. As if on his cue, they begin to play, barely audible at first over the bassoon.

 _Genuinely_ on his cue, a gentle buzzing begins against your clit, making you inhale sharply.

“Hear how they’re pushing us along?”

You think you do, a little bit.

Just like you think you kind of see what he means when the bassoon stops, and he whispers, “The flute.”

The flute, and then the strings come back, fuller. Yes, you kind of see what he means.

It goes on like this for at least a minute—Abel pointing out the things that make the tension build: the strings, then the chords across the orchestra, then a whirlwind of strings again. All the while, desire is beginning to simmer in your gut. Patient, in response to the light buzzing from the vibrator, but already, you’re craving more.

Craving more as Abel breathes against your skin and tells you, “Wait for it.”

Another loud hit makes you jump, and then you whimper; he’s shut the vibrator off. “Wh-” you begin. The strings are still swirling and pulsing—aren’t they still pushing forward?

“That was what they were building to,” he whispers. “They’re pulling back again, can’t you feel it?”

You want to be able to say no, because you’re already craving more from the vibrator, but again: you kind of see what he means.

“A little bit.”

More than a little bit. The instruments grow quiet, almost fade away to nothing.

“Woodwinds.”

They come back more urgently; with them, the buzzing starts up again. “Oh,” you whisper, and you couldn’t say whether it’s the music or the vibrator that makes your heart stutter.

“Strings.” Abel’s voice husky in your ear. You sit up a little straighter in your seat, well aware of his instruction that you sit still, but more than a little overwhelmed by the combined sensations of the vibrator and your heart pounding along with the orchestra. “Brass.”

He shuts it off again, and again, you whimper, but he doesn’t have to explain this time; the orchestra almost seems to come to a stop before transitioning into a quieter section.

It’s pulled back. You don’t like it, but yes, you see how it’s pulled back.

“I like the way the cellos swell here,” Abel whispers. And you want to like it too, but how can you, when he’s not giving you what you want?

As if reading your mind, though, he holds up a finger, which you watch out of the corner of your eye. The strings stop churning through their plaintive theme, coming together with a softer hit in unison. And somehow, you are ready for it this time.

Which you wouldn’t have realized, probably, except you roll your hips slightly in your chair, feeling the vibrator at a slightly different angle when Abel starts it up again.

You are not ready for what Abel does next. The orchestra has started to build tension again, building through what sounds like a scale? Maybe?

“Brass,” he tells you, and a moment later, he ups the vibrations. You exhale, little more than a weak gasp in response to the stronger pulsing between your legs and to the steady build happening before you, but you barely have any time to enjoy it; the orchestra reaches another arrival, and the vibrator is off again.

Thankfully, he doesn’t make you wait long this time. There’s another churning rise in the piece, starting bigger than the one before, and blissfully, wonderfully, it lasts longer than any of the others so far. The throbbing between your legs grows more insistent, and your heart beats rapidly as the orchestra hits another arrival point but Abel _doesn’t_ stop the vibrator; instead he whispers, “It’s still trying to get somewhere, do you hear that?”

“Mhm.” A whimper.

Only for you to groan about a minute later when he shuts it off again. “Not this again.”

You’re referring to the return of the slow section, which maybe you’d be more inclined to like if it weren’t for the fact that you were just starting to really _feel_ it.

Abel laughs, and his breath tickles your neck. “That’s the secondary theme, baby. It’s gotta come back before we can get to the good stuff.” Well, that, you like the sound of, at least. You also can’t help but blush when his lips meet your jaw. “I like that you noticed it.”

Suddenly you kind of like it, too.

If it weren’t for Abel’s hand, you might not be able to tell that he, too, is affected by what he’s doing to you. Because when he starts up the vibrator again, he can’t seem to stop touching you.

Brushing your hair back when they seem to reach a plateau and whispering, “But this isn’t it, is it?”

Tracing his hands down your arm and curling his fingers with yours. “How about those trombones?” Several moments later, fingers across your thigh at the same moment that he ups the intensity of the vibrator again. “The clarinet.”

And on and on, until what you are certain is the climax of the movement hits, and you blurt, “Fuck, Abel.” Your stomach is in knots from the music and the vibrator both, and you hear him let out a breath of laughter.

“Please don’t,” you whisper a few seconds later. Because you realize it’s pulling back again but you’re desperate, goosebumps spread across your skin and your heart caught in your throat.

“Three more movements, baby.” His gentle way of telling you _all in good time_.

But that also means that as he points out movement two, and then movement three, the intensity of your desire only grows worse. Each time he starts up the vibrator, it is more difficult for you to refrain from making a sound. More difficult to refrain from moving, as he had instructed.

It’s the third movement that gets you. It’s so driving and forceful, sending shivers down your spine, and the persistent buzzing of the vibrator is exquisite against your clit, which has become oversensitive from Abel’s edging. Desperately seeking some release, you bite your lip and begin to rock your hips back and forth.

The vibrator shuts off, and you are certain that it’s not because of the music.

“Naughty girl.” There’s a hint of amusement in his voice. “You know what I said, sweetheart.” You try to protest, but he grabs your chin and pulls you to him in a long, hungry kiss. In the back of your mind, you think again of all of those strangers who could look over to your box at any moment, and your stomach flips.

When he pulls away, you chase his mouth for a desperate moment, so that his lips are still nearly touching yours when he breathes, “We’ll wait until the fourth movement, I think.”

You let out a soft whimper, but you do not argue.

As the third movement draws to a close, you are transfixed by the way it builds. You’re longing to come, and you are almost certain that you could have if you hadn’t been quite so desperate. Whatever is coming in the fourth movement, you are ready for it. You need it.

Silence falls. Movement four starts.

“Doesn’t this fanfare make your heart ache?” Abel asks.

You swallow, nodding slowly. Yes. As it draws to a close, you almost feel like you could listen to it forever: just brass playing chords together.

But then Abel says, “Here we go.”

The strings start quiet, but you immediately understand why Abel kicks the vibrator back on—the urgency with which they’re pushing the orchestra to whatever the conclusion of this movement is. And fuck, it just keeps building for what feels like an _eternity_ , Abel increasing the vibrations along with it. Occasionally he murmurs in your ear, but he’s not really pointing out specific instruments and sections anymore; he’s just saying, “I love this,” and, “Isn’t that just…”

Not elaborating. Just, “Isn’t that just.”

And you fucking _get it_.

It pulls back and you have to cover your own mouth to stop the gasp that is straining to come out. Another fucking slow, plaintive section.

“Wait,” Abel murmurs.

He’s right. The tension is back soon enough, and the stimulation against your clit along with it.

God, you are so desperate to move, breathless as the brass enters. The things you would give to climb into Abel’s lap right now. Or let him take you right there on the floor. He’d turn you into a puddle in an instant and you are almost certain that he knows it, if his own rapid breathing is any indication.

You are almost certain that he’s going to shut off the toy when it seems like the ensemble is getting quiet again, but he fucking doesn’t, and you can’t resist the urge to turn and look at him, your eyes wide.

Abel looks fucking ravenous. Even in the dark, you can see that his pupils are blown wide, an eager quirk to his lips. “Can’t you feel it still going?”

He’s right. Ominous notes play under the melody and nothing about it is settled. Everything in it is pushing things forward.

For a brief, shining moment, the brass comes in at full power, and you don’t want it to end.

But Abel has also upped the vibrator to its highest intensity.

You barely have time to cover your mouth again before you come with a moan. The orchestra is fucking loud, enough so that no one else is truly at risk of hearing you, but Abel understands what’s happening at once—has seen you climax a million times. His fingers thread through yours, his lips hover at your ear. “Good girl. I love seeing you trembling like this, sweetheart. Just like this.”

As your walls clench around nothing, you’re craving his cock, desperate to feel him filling you while the orchestra makes you unravel, but instead you just squeeze his hand tight, breathing hard and trying to remain silent as pleasure courses through you.

Meanwhile, they’re still fucking _going_ , and the vibrator is, too. You can’t resist the urge to grind against it anymore, and Abel isn’t stopping you, maybe too transfixed by the sight of you coming undone.

Softly, he whispers, “They still have a few more minutes, if you’d like me to keep it on.”

You swallow hard before nodding.

Abel has completely dropped the pretense of using the vibrator for any sort of _educational_ purpose, now—his other hand is no longer even bothering with the remote, instead clutching his knee quite tightly. As you feel pleasure beginning to build in your gut once again, you are just as aroused by that gesture.

The knowledge of his arousal.

Everything about the moment is intoxicating. As the orchestra races along, and you roll your hips against the vibrator, and Abel holds your hand so fucking tight.

Someone on stage hits a gong, temporarily silencing everything, before the strings come in again. They’re playing even more rapidly, desperately.

“Let go, baby,” Abel whispers. “They’re running now, come on.”

You whimper at his words. It’s too much and not enough, your pussy wet and throbbing between your legs. So fucking needy for him. And it’s almost as if Abel reads your mind, because he says more. “Be a good girl and come again or I’m gonna have to make you. Lay you down on the floor and fuck you in front of all of these nice, fancy people. I bet you’re so ready for me, aren’t you baby? You’d take me so fucking well.”

“I-” You stammer to get anything out, nodding sharply. “Gonna come, Abel.”

He smiles against your jaw, and it is everything.

You shatter again.

The piece finishes with a dramatic flourish while you’re riding through your second orgasm, and it’s only belatedly that you realize the audience is applauding the performance. Based on the way Abel chuckles, you’re quite certain that you’re several seconds too late as you join in.

When the lights come up, you look him over, and you are exasperated to see how completely unflustered he looks.

Not that you’re surprised. He’s done this enough that you know precisely how poised he will be. Precisely as poised as he is in everything else.

It is agonizingly sexy, and you wish you could pull him into some secluded place and get your mouth on his cock. Maybe he _looks_ poised, but you also know him well enough to see right through that façade.

You’ve no doubt that he’s fucking dying to get home after that display.

But he doesn’t say so. Instead, he raises his eyebrows. “Have I convinced you of the merits of classical music?”

Licking your lips, you smile. “You made a compelling case. But I think you’ll need to show me a few more examples for good measure.”


End file.
